Phoenix Rising
by Clevingerrr
Summary: When the Leviathan arrives in Istanbul to secure a defecting German scientist, Newkirk finds himself caught in a web of political intrigue and revolution. With Alek and Deryn no longer around to help him, he is forced to confront not only Clankers, but his own doubts and weaknesses as well.
1. Dry Season

**A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm taking a break from writing Between Two Giants to begin work on this fanfic: a Newkirk-centric story taking place a little over a year after _Goliath_. Why, you ask? Well, I've had this idea on my mind for a while, and I've found Newkirk to be an interesting yet under-appreciated character as a whole. There's a lot of untapped potential about his backstory and why he acts the way he does in the trilogy, and I intend to explore that throughout this.**

**Just a heads-up for future reference: Alek, Deryn, and Volger do not appear at any point in this fanfic. They will be mentioned from time to time, but they will never make any physical appearances. Dr. Barlow may make a minor appearance at some point, but that's up in the air for now. Newkirk will have the sole POV of the story, and the plot will mostly revolve around him.**

**As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated by me. Please leave a review so I can fix any errors or listen to your advice/constructive criticism!**

**Also, I'd like to thank Julia456 for clarifying aspects of Newkirk's mannerisms and speech, and for letting me run some ideas by her. To conclude the note: I am not Scott Westerfeld, nor do I claim ownership to any of his characters.**

* * *

Aboard the _H.M.S. Leviathan_, a tense standoff was underway in the lower decks. It had been going on for the past ten minutes, and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon. One lone midshipman found himself face-to-face with several undesirable objectives, and they were in the way of his relief shift. The air was thick with uncertainty and danger as Eugene Newkirk slowly approached his target.

Well, to be more accurate, the air was thick with uncertainty, danger, and the scent of ham.

"Alright, beastie," he slowly said, carefully pushing another piece of meat towards the hydrogen sniffers. "I don't like you, and it's pretty clear you don't like me. I'm going to give you this meat, and then I'll be out of your hair. Just please, please, don't try to gnaw my face off again!"

The dog-like fabrications tilted their heads at his remark, indifferent to his pleas and solely interested in the tasty chunks of ham he was carrying. Sweat was dripping down Newkirk's face. As he was stared down by several ungodly abominations with six legs and two mouths, he wondered why in the world Mr. Rigby had assigned him to feeding duty. They knew that beasties like these ones scared the ever-loving clart out of him, so why torment him like this?

He slid the fifth piece of meat to them, leaving him with only three more to distribute. The sniffers tended to avoid eating in front of people, possibly out of a peeve with being watched while stuffing themselves, or just so they could fight amongst each other for the remaining scraps. Of course, he knew why he had been assigned to this job. Ever since Sharp and Aleksandar left the _Leviathan_, Newkirk's fear of fabrications became even more of a detriment to the crew than during the Great War. Even with their replacements on-board now, Mr. Rigby and Captain Hobbes figured it was time for him to shape up or ship out.

As he picked up the sixth piece, one of the sniffers barked loudly and leaped up at him. Newkirk squealed with fear, dropping the ham and falling back into the corner of the airbeast's sniffer pound, which also happened to be their bathroom of sorts. The offending sniffer, not interested in mauling him, bit two pieces of meat and dragged them over to the others.

So, there he was again. Hunched up in terror of the creatures he was supposed to be a master of, pants stained with beastie piss, and his head hung in shame. "I'm still a complete ninny," he muttered, getting up steadily and nudging the last bite of ham over to the hydrogen sniffers. Their eyes were focused on him, giving him a look that said, "You should probably get going now." His duty was done, even if he still found the fabs repulsive.

Newkirk brushed the excess liquid off his pants, salvaging whatever dignity he had left as he approached the stairs. All he wanted to do was to plop in bed and think about the good old days, back when his duties aboard the airbeast involved taking down hordes of Germans.

At the top of the stairs was Midshipman Fitzroy, snickering at him with that cocky look he always had on his face.

"Still having trouble feeding the dogs, eh Newkirk?" he mockingly asked, glancing at Newkirk's stained clothes and overall terrified appearance.

So much for salvaging his pride. "They're sniffers, Fitzroy. A lot different than dogs, you know!" he shot back, aware that he wasn't helping his case at all.

"And, to think, they shipped me off this dump and left a Monkey Luddite like you to handle this! I'm glad they had the sense to bring me back."

Robert Fitzroy had been stationed on the _Leviathan_ early on with Newkirk, and they had begrudgingly worked together until Mr. Sharp's arrival necessitated a transferring of a few members of the crew. Despite Fitzroy's parents' connections with the Admiralty, he had been shipped off to an outpost in Australia until the war died down. After he and Alek left the _Leviathan_ for the Zoological Society, he had been brought back on with the new recruit, O'Donovan.

To put it lightly, Fitzroy was a pompous git. While he was clean-shaven and respectable-looking, he was unmistakably cocky. He believed himself to be superior to all of his fellow crewmen, and somehow thought he was irresistible to women. While he and Newkirk got along decently, he relentlessly ribbed Newkirk about his fear of the beasties aboard, calling him a Monkey Luddite and other nicknames for non-Darwinists.

"I mean, listen to yourself! You squealed like a girl at a fab not built for combat, and now you've wet your pants as well?"

"I did not barking wet my pants! I just fell into a puddle of their urine!" Once again, Newkirk realized too late that this wasn't improving his argument in the slightest.

Instead of giving him another verbal jab, Fitzroy laughed and propped open the upstairs door for him. Newkirk quickly ascended the wooden staircase, grateful to be away from those disturbing abominations down below. Now, they were in the hallway connecting each beastie habitat with one another.

Looking back, Newkirk said, "I never understood why that stairway doesn't creak."

"That's because it's fabricated wood, Newkirk! You're supposed to know these sorts of things by now!"

"That's also confusing me. How in the world do you fabricate wood? I mean, the beasties come out of eggs, but where does the wood come from? And if it's so sturdy, how do they even carve it out?"

"Easy! They just…" Fitzroy paused, scratching his head. "They…I guess they somehow…" He stamped his foot several times in frustration. "I don't know either," he eventually said, shrugging off the question as quickly as it came.

It wasn't worth dwelling on, anyway. It was just one of many other questions plaguing Newkirk ever since his best friend left the ship. With Mr. Sharp…no, Dylan…gone from active duty, he no longer had a go-to friend for beastie-related issues, or someone to talk to when he needed advice. That, and the airbeast wasn't quite the same without a decorated war hero gracing its presence.

Was Dylan Sharp the greatest hero Newkirk had ever met? Well, once he pulled him out of a burning Huxley balloon before he was incinerated, so maybe he was a bit biased on the matter. But, he also rescued several defecting Austrians from their German harassers, and destroyed an entire German strike force as they ambushed the Goliath during its test fire. The evidence didn't lie: the boy was a barking hero. He was a manly man, larger than life in his exploits yet humble enough to be close with the likes of him.

And he was gone, probably never to return while he did God-only-knows-what in the Zoological Society of London.

Newkirk hadn't changed much in the year since his departure. He had grown an inch or two, sure, and his brownish hair had gotten a bit longer, but he was overall the same. Much to his disappointment, he hadn't gotten any more independent or brave. Instead, he found himself pawning off most of his work with the beasties to Fitzroy or Matthews, in exchange for menial or strenuous tasks.

Fitzroy nudged him and pointed to another boy walking towards them. "Look, the stiff-neck's coming this way," he told him.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Walking down the hallway was none other than Midshipman Matthews, looking as distant and impenetrable as ever. His eyes were cold, and his lips were curled in that snarl he tended to wear whenever something unsettling was on his mind.

"Either of you two know why we're heading back to that sandbox?" he asked, his voice low and authoritative.

Fitzroy chuckled, and said, "Nice to see you too, Matthews."

Ernest Matthews and Newkirk had been acquaintances during the war, often swapping stories of their lives in Cardiff and Edinburgh, respectively. However, he had the unfortunate luck of being on a sabotage mission with Dylan in the Ottoman Empire when they were ambushed, killing Midshipman Robins and leaving him and one other crewman in captivity. Matthews was the only one to make it back alive.

Something happened to Matthews in there that warped him. He went from a friendly, sociable person to a no-nonsense, cynical type. In addition, he had become prone to fits of rage and acts of violence against people that pushed him too far. He was still tolerant of Newkirk, but he had nothing but disgust for Fitzroy's self-importance and O'Donovan's inexperience with airbeasts. Whatever the Ottomans had done to him must have caused him a great deal of agony.

Not wanting to set him off, Newkirk spoke up. "The captain said that we were supposed to deliver those aid packages as soon as we got there, then wait for the German defector to contact us. He'll sneak aboard the ship, and we'll take him back to London with the Ottomans none the wiser."

Fitzroy raised his eyebrows curiously. "That's it? We just play the waiting game and sit around until this egghead pops up on our front door? I don't know, that seems like a waste of a ruggedly-handsome midshipman like myself…"

Matthews sighed, audibly frustrated at him. "Fitzroy, do you ever even think about the nonsense you say before it spews out your mouth?"

"No, Matthews, I do not. I prefer to do things, not think them over."

Newkirk had to give him credit: that was the most accurate thing he had said in his entire life. Although, it wasn't accurate in the way he had meant it.

"At least the mission sounds easy enough," Matthews said, adjusting the rigging knife attached to his pants. "What about the killings around that place? Are we supposed to worry about those?"

"If we were, Captain Hobbes would have told us."

Newkirk didn't know this for sure, though he didn't want Matthews to worry any more than he had to. Everyone aboard the _Leviathan_ knew about the rumors swirling around: the Committee of Union and Progress had supposedly turned against a minority of its people, rounding up hundreds of "Armenians" and executing them without a hint of remorse or pity. The more the rumors got out, the worse the situation sounded: families dragged out of their homes, women and children shot in the streets for being reported as part of that race, dozens of victims marched into the desert to die of thirst while their tormentors watched. It made him worry sick when he thought about it. Who, in the right mind, would slaughter people just because their race was different than the majority? It was barking mad!

Of course, no nations had acknowledged this so far. With the Ottoman Empire politically isolating itself from the other Clanker nations and gruffly abandoned by the Darwinists, it simply did what it wanted without opposition from other nations. With no official evidence other than stories from refugees, outside groups had no grounds for intervention, only investigation.

"Who cares what's going on there?" Fitzroy questioned them. "If we're only going to be there for a day or two, nothing's going to happen to us! The Germans won't know we were there until it's too late to stop us, and the Ottomans won't care about us picking up the defecting guy. Besides, it's not like any of us are Armenian, right?"

Newkirk hadn't the faintest clue what Armenians were like. He couldn't shake the feeling that he would find out sooner or later, though.

Out of one of the tubes in the wall came a message lizard, crawling on all fours as it approached the trio. "Midshipman Newkirk," it said in Mr. Rigby's crisp voice, "I hope all is well with your feeding duty. We will be docking in the ports of Constantinople – sorry, _Istanbul_ – within the half-hour. I need you to throw figs to the flechette bats immediately, as Midshipman O'Donovan has been reassigned to lookout for the time being. End message." It immediately crawled back up the tube, leaving as quickly as it arrived.

Newkirk's heart sank. Feeding the flechette bats? Was Mr. Rigby serious? It was hard enough to give food to three or four walking beasties, but feeding a swarm of flying ones? The first time he tried loading the bats with spikes, he nearly fainted, which forced Dylan to pick up the slack for him.

"Barking spiders!" he moaned in despair. "Nothing's going my way today…"

Fitzroy snorted at him. "Jesus, Newkirk, way to keep those stupid phrases Sharp used to say going. I mean, I've never heard anyone say that in my entire life! Who in blazes says something like 'barking spiders?'"

His cheeks flushed with humiliation, and his gaze averted from the others. He had been mimicking Dylan's way of speaking since the two became close friends. Although they were both from Scotland, he had rarely heard terms like "clart" and "barking" until he first joined the crew. Unconsciously, he began saying them as well, though he was unsure whether or not Dylan found it complimentary or annoying. In many ways, he wanted to be more like Dylan, to be braver than anyone else and to go on over-the-top adventures with unusual companions. His emulation of Dylan's slang was no doubt a reflection of that.

More than anything, he wanted to feel like he belonged aboard the _Leviathan_. Until he managed to overcome his extremely-conservative upbringing and deathly fear of fabrications, it was just a pipe dream.

Matthews lightly kicked his leg, getting his attention. "Better get on it, Newkirk. Looks like we'll be on a timetable again, and you know how pear-shaped that gets when we go off-schedule."

Newkirk nodded, turning his back on the others and making his way to the flechette bat nest. Now that he was away from the vitriolic nature of Fitzroy and the brooding of Matthews, his mood lightened a touch. Maybe this mission in Constantinople, or Istanbul, or whatever they called it, was precisely what he needed. There wouldn't be too much to the job: get into the port, draw the defector's attention to their airbeast, and get him out under the cover of the night. The impact would be so great in comparison: imagine, a medal pinned on his chest for successfully retrieving a Clanker defector! He might even make the papers if they decide to declassify the operation! He would be the hero he had dreamed of being for years, and his life would never be in danger at any point.

After all, their mission was nothing more than a glorified snatch-and-grab. What could possibly go wrong with that?

Optimistically expecting the next few days to breeze without issue, Newkirk opened the door to the flechette bat nest, greeted by their nauseating, unsettling shrieks. Shaking with terror, he grabbed the bag of figs left by the entrance and closed the door. Before anything else, he had to feed these disgusting insults to God and mankind.


	2. Kindling

If there was one thing Newkirk hated more than intimidating-looking beasties, it was waiting. Not the sort of waiting that comes with eagerness and anticipation, but the suspenseful ticking of the clock that would eventually deliver him into harm's way. For better or worse, the Air Service always found a way to put him in those situations, though he wasn't entirely sure if he had become a better person because of it.

Case in point: he was stuck hanging around the Leviathan's cargo hold with Midshipmen O'Donovan and Fitzroy, waiting for the go-ahead to open up the blast-proof doors and begin handing over the mysterious crates made of fabricated wood. He had no idea what they were delivering, or if the Ottomans had gotten over the last fiascoes that happened when his people plopped into Istanbul and started causing trouble. What if they still resented his airbeast's role in destroying their infrastructure, and decided he would look better with a knotted rope as a necktie?

The thought of it made him shudder. Realizing how dangerous it was to psych himself out, Newkirk attempted to shift his focus onto any other topic.

"O'Donovan!" he yelled across the room to the midshipman, "any idea what's in these boxes?"

"Sorry, boss, not a clue. I thought the boys in charge were supposed to tell us about them ahead of time! Come to think of it, does anyone here even know what these things are holding?"

Michael O'Donovan was the epitome of a fresh-faced recruit: friendly and open to all sorts of chit-chat, amiable even in the worst of situations, and completely useless when it came to advanced maneuvers and responsibilities. But, since Captain Hobbes saw something useful in him, he became the second addition to the crew since the departure of Dylan and Aleksandar. That wasn't to say he was a waste of hydrogen: he took the most grueling tasks with a smile and a "yes, sir," and he had a knack for calming the more-aggressive beasties down, something that Newkirk found incredibly beneficial. Those qualities weren't nearly enough to win the hearts of his fellow crew members, as Fitzroy and some of the others would remind him.

Apparently, he had a twin sister around Dylan's age, though he never went into too much detail about her. The only things he knew were that she loved birds, preferred sensitive boys who talked about their feelings, and was currently embroiled in some guerrilla conflict as a volunteer. Essentially, she was off-limits to anyone serving alongside her brother.

Newkirk's thoughts were interrupted by two short bursts of the airbeast's klaxons. Recognizing it as the signal to get started, he and O'Donovan scrambled to start raising the study doors of the cargo hold, while Fitzroy slid each of the crates closer to the entrance.

"Come on, come on!" Mr. Rigby shouted from the back of the room. "Get to it! The gendarmes are standing around and waiting for you lot!"

With a heave, Newkirk cycled the crank one last time, securing the blast doors above them while the hand-off went on.

Istanbul stood before them like a sweeping panorama, its metal towers illuminated by the setting of the sun. The port was crowded with dozens of people mulling about, and at least twenty Ottoman policemen standing beside the _Leviathan_, billy clubs at the ready in case any more spontaneous protests broke out. In addition to the airships tied down near their airbeast, there were a good number of fishing boats docked at the port, a few of their owners selling their catches at hastily-erected stalls.

Aboard a normal airship, a ramp or set of stairs would be lowered to allow the fez-clad military police to climb aboard. However, as he had learned, the _Leviathan_ was no ordinary airship. Instead of a metal ramp, a tongue-like appendage slithered out of a gap left by the opening of the blast doors, pressing itself down onto the concrete to create an angle small enough to walk on. The entire process earned a shudder from Newkirk. The Ottomans looked either morbidly confused or utterly disgusted at the entrance, but began walking up once a younger-looking officer took his first few steps onto the surprisingly solid surface.

Upon reaching the cargo hold, the officer clicked his heels together and saluted Mr. Rigby, imitating a Darwinist-styled military greeting. "My nation thanks you for your generous donation, men of the _Leviathan_," he said in heavily-accented but grammatically-solid English. "We will take care of extraction and delivery of the. Rest assured, distribution of these organs will be fair and just."

Newkirk blanched at his comment. They were carrying fabricated organs with them the entire time? Is that why they swished around whenever he would move them one way or the other? As if the tongue-ramp didn't unsettle him enough…

"It's not a problem at all! In fact, I would be more than willing to have my men assist yours with these crates."

"I appreciate your offer, but my men can take care of this operation." The officer shouted something in Turkish to the other policemen, and they promptly began carrying the aid packages out of the cargo hold.

Looking out at the hustle and bustle of Istanbul's streets, Newkirk unconsciously began making comparisons with his life in Scotland's capitol. It was odd, staring at the Clankers going about their business and imagining how it would fit in Edinburgh. Small, spider-like walkers were used as taxis and buses, ferrying people around the city like the oxenesque-pulled carriages did where he grew up. The markets looked eerily similar as well, disregarding the metallic sheen everything had in Clanker territory. They looked so…normal. These people hardly fit the savage descriptions that the recruitment posters gave them; in fact, he would go so far as to say they seemed mostly harmless.

"But you knew that all along, didn't you, Eugene?" a mocking voice reverberated in his mind. "Or maybe you just forgot. Drowning out the sins of ancestors with over-the-top patriotism does tend to skew one's views, no?"

Newkirk shut his eyes and shook his head angrily. Now was not the time to begin guilting himself or debating what he did or did not deserve.

Just as his men had almost cleared out the cargo hold, the Ottoman officer's grip on his crate slackened, and the container crashed into the ground, miraculously unharmed by the fall. Newkirk rushed over to the man's side.

"My apologies, midshipman. That was horribly clumsy of me."

Newkirk picked up the box for him. "Really, it's nothing to worry about. Happens to me all the time!"

"I will remember that," the officer said, taking the crate out of his hands. Newkirk felt something smooth and flat slip into his hand as the crate was taken away by the officer. Turning away from the entrance, he opened his fist, revealing a folded piece of paper with the words, "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL TRANSACTION IS CONCLUDED," emblazoned on one side.

"Oi, Newkirk, what's that you got there?" O'Donovan asked, blissfully unaware of the obviously-secretive nature of the message.

Perhaps recognizing the clandestine nature of the note, or just fed up with O'Donovan's cheerful ignorance, Fitzroy swatted the back of the other midshipman's head. "Not here, you stupid plonker!"

"That's enough, Mr. Fitzroy. You and Mr. O'Donovan close up shop here; I'll be taking Mr. Newkirk to the captain."

* * *

"Bring four representatives from your airship to the address marked at the bottom of this paper. At least one higher-ranking person should be present. If the proprietor asks you the question, 'Do you know Mata Hari?' your response should be, 'Yes, and can you spare a cigarette.' Your contact will be there waiting for you in a concealed location. Come unarmed or do not come at all."

Once Newkirk had finished reading the message aloud, Captain Hobbes glanced over at the other officers present. His grey beard and commanding-yet-respectful presence hadn't faltered in the year or so since the war's conclusion. To the men serving aboard the _Leviathan_, himself included, the captain was a pillar of stability in times of crisis.

"What do you all make of this?" Captain Hobbes asked.

Mr. Hirst spoke up first. "Frankly, captain, I believe this is a trap. Clankers are a manipulative, unscrupulous bunch, and they're backstabbers by nature. Who's to say this isn't some sort of sting operation planned by the Germans? If they find out our true reason for being here, we could be arrested and court-martialed as spies!"

From what Dylan had let slip to him, much of Mr. Hirst's distrust of Clankers came from a confrontation between him, Aleksandar, and one of the Austrian mechanics they employed to maintain the engines. How it started was a mystery to him, but the aftermath left Aleksandar in the infirmary and the Austrian in the brig.

If there was one person that mystified him more than that "count" person, it was Aleksandar. His first impression of the Austrian boy was that he seemed shy and effeminate, but was overall not a bad person to have around. But, just as he began proving his worth, more and more confusing information poured out about him, all of which baffled Newkirk greatly. Not only was he part of the nobility, and not only was he a prince, but he was also the heir to the entire barking Austro-Hungarian Empire! And, since their contact was fairly limited over the course of the Great War, he never got the opportunity to ask him how or why he defected in the first place.

"If I may, captain?" Mr. Rigby interjected. "While Hirst may have a point, this is our only lead on the defector so far. If the streets are as heavily-patrolled as the rumors said, then he may not be able to get to us without our assistance. In my opinion, we ought to go to the location tonight, because waiting around will just make the Vizier suspicious."

Captain Hobbes nodded. "You both have good points. While the safety of our crew is a top priority, this is a job we cannot afford to waste time on. Mr. Newkirk, your thoughts?"

He initially hesitated, unsure of whether or not the captain was joking. "Well…I think that the Clankers might have a bad streak so far, but…I'm not sure. I just feel like we can trust them this time. We all know about the troubles going on around here; why would the Ottomans jeopardize their isolation by arresting us for something we may not have even done?" A contemplative silence followed his suggestion. "If it helps," he then spoke up, "I'll volunteer to go wherever this takes us."

"No need for that, Mr. Newkirk, as I've made my decision. Tonight, you, Mr. O'Donovan, Mr. Fitzroy, and Mr. Rigby will contact the defector and arrange for his extraction. If you are harassed or arrested, remember that you are a foreign national and have partial diplomatic immunity."

Ironically, Newkirk had hoped that his advice on the mission and selfless volunteering would have gotten him out of a hairy assignment like this. Upon retrospect, Captain Hobbes was most likely still intent on making him man up.

Captain Hobbes pulled out his rustic pipe and lit it, blowing a smoke ring for effect. "Best of luck, everyone!" he said with a smile. "Just keep calm and carry on."

* * *

In contrast to his expectations, the hideout for the German defector wasn't a back alley or some underground tunnel in the vast expanses of Istanbul. Instead, the address scrawled on the note led to a quaint little restaurant somewhere in the western half of the city, near some sort of fancy hotel.

"Are you sure this is it?" O'Donovan asked, squinting at the signs written in Turkish and German on the wall.

Mr. Rigby glanced down at the note again. "Well, the numbers match up perfectly on both addresses. We should pop in and see if it leads us in the right direction."

Newkirk and the others slowly opened the door and walked inside, greeted by the site of a crudely-assembled bar. It had all the trappings of the pubs Newkirk's friends would drag him to in Edinburgh, complete with boxes of peanuts, barstools scattered around the room, and a wall lined with liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes. Two metallic tables sat near the back, accompanied by five chairs each. The grey-and-blue carpeting sported a variety of stains and discarded shells.

"It's a bar?" Newkirk asked, completely unsure of what to make of his surroundings. Weren't the Muslims adamantly opposed to drinking alcohol? If so, what in the world was a bar doing in here?

Fitzroy clapped his hands together, saying, "This is my kind of meeting place!"

With a slow and careful pace, the four approached the middle-aged bartender, who had been watching them intently.

"Always good to see more thirsty sky sailors!" the bartender said. "Take a seat anywhere. What are you in the mood for?"

"My subordinates and I are just here to browse your wares, if you don't mind."

"Is that so? Do you know Mata Hari?"

Newkirk picked up on the cue, and wanting to take the lead, said, "Aye, and can you lend us a fag? I mean, yes, and can you spare a cigarette?"

The bartender nodded, closed the front door, and locked it. "Follow me," he said.

The bartender led them behind the counter, past the poster of Kaiser Wilhelm standing triumphant over a fallen Lord Churchill, past the recruitment poster for the Ottoman Navy, and past the wanted posters for a dark-haired girl wearing an intricate dress, and finally into the supply closet. From there, he cleared away three cardboard boxes from the left side of the room, and pried open a hidden panel. In the now-open space was a ladder extending down at least twice his height into a dimly-lit tunnel.

"Barking spiders," Newkirk muttered, "you've got a secret tunnel down here! It's just like that lot that escaped the German prison camp!"

"Newkirk, for the love of God, quit talking like Sharp!" Fitzroy yelled at him. "Just because you're both Scots doesn't mean you have to prance around borrowing his stupid catchphrases!"

"Oh, get off my back, Fitzroy! You're just sore that he and I got to stay aboard the ship while you got shipped off to the middle of nowhere!"

"Both of you, quiet down!" Mr. Rigby ordered them. "We're about to meet our defector, so start acting presentable!"

Begrudgingly, Newkirk and Fitzroy kept their mouths shut. The five men descended the ladder, ending up in a short tunnel that led to a larger-looking room below the surface. Gas lanterns adorned the walls, giving the relatively-dark area some much-needed light. The path ahead was blocked by a wooden door.

"They will be in the room ahead," the bartender said, pulling out a key ring and opening each lock on the door one by one.

"What's with all the locks?" Fitzroy asked, "This place looks pretty well-hidden as it is. What, are you afraid that_ ze Germans _are going to find this place?"

"The Germans? They are of no threat to us. The Committee is what frightens me most, as I have more than one guest staying here." With the last lock undone, he pushed open the door, revealing two figures sitting on the floor.

The two occupants of the room were an androgynous-looking man and a girl around his age. The man had long, unkempt blond hair and an odd mix of Turkish and European clothing on. The girl was what caught Newkirk's eye: everything from her impressive height to her fierce-looking gaze gave her an authoritative aura he hadn't seen on a woman since Dr. Barlow boarded their airbeast. She was wearing a surprisingly high-cut dress that revealed her ankles, which caused him to briefly avert his eyes in embarrassment.

"About time, Imran!" the man said, getting up and shaking the bartender's hand. His accent was definitely Germanic. Was this the defector they were supposed to meet?

The bartender, or Imran, nodded and stepped back, giving Newkirk and the others enough space to enter the cramped room.

"You must be from the _Leviathan_, no? It is an honor to meet you all. My name is Doctor Johann Schmidt, and I am the former chief fabricator for the German Empire."

If the blank stares from the others were any indication, they were as confused as he was. Did the defector just declare himself to be "chief fabricator" for the Germans? They were a strictly Clanker state! Either he was dead serious, or he was just taunting them.

"I'm not sure if I heard that correctly. Did you say…chief fabricator? As in, you make fabrications for the Germans?"

"Well, I _made _them once upon a time. The Germans wanted me to replicate your designs for testing purposes; namely, what weaknesses they could possibly have and what sorts of ammunition would be most effective. It went on like that for a while, until I managed to contact the March 31st Movement about defecting to your side. _Fraulein_ Lilit here has played an essential role in getting people like me in and out of the Empire."

This was becoming far too much to process. Mr. Rigby, possibly as out of words as Newkirk was, simply nodded his head at the flow of revelations. "Regardless of what you did, all that matters now is extracting you to a safe place in London. Will you be able to leave tonight?"

"Well…about that…"

"In exchange for our protection," Lilit spoke up, "Dr. Schmidt agreed to negotiate for a favor on our behalf. Something," she shot him a look that could only mean trouble, "that he clearly forgot to mention in the letter we smuggled to your Admiralty."

"What do you mean, 'a favor?' If you expect us to help you attack the Ottoman Empire's military, then you are gravely mistaken."

"I never asked for your help with the revolution." Judging by her tone, Lilit was fairly annoyed at their uncooperative stance on the matter. "What I need from you is more of a…humanitarian favor, if you would." Her head faced the floor as she took a deep breath. "My people are getting slaughtered by the hundreds, and unless they are evacuated from Istanbul, they will face greater reprisals if we fail. I will need your airbeast to escort the remaining Armenians from Istanbul to the northernmost city, Edirne."

In Lilit's eyes lay an intense focus that seemed to consume everything around them. There was no doubt in his mind how she came to be leading an entire rebellion. Even in a cramped safe house below a run-down bar, everything she said had power behind it. He felt so inspired by her determination that he was tempted to stick up for her idea.

"Absolutely not!" Mr. Rigby said.

Newkirk allowed the thought of voicing his opinion to die down. This was going to get ugly very quickly.

"Do you expect us to violate our treaties with the Ottomans and evacuate hundreds, maybe thousands of refugees without passports or papers? We don't have the resources for a task like that!"

Dr. Schmidt weakly raised his hand. "Don't I have a say in any of this?"

Both sides ignored his plea. "It's a little under one hundred, and we have the passports already taken care of! All you need to do is coordinate with our contacts and find a night when they can slip out with you unnoticed!"

"I've made myself clear, Ms. Lilit. Our sole job was to get the doctor onto British soil, and that is all we intend to do. Whether or not we have your permission is irrelevant."

Instead of arguing back at him like Newkirk expected, Lilit turned to her side, exposing a Mauser pistol holstered onto her dress. Involuntarily, he stepped back in fear.

"Are you sure it's irrelevant?" Lilit asked, smirking. "Because my ten rounds here suggest otherwise."

Newkirk's hands were in the air as he quivered in his boots. He didn't consider himself easily spooked, but loaded guns and nasty-looking beasties put the fear of God in him faster than anything else. "Pl-please don't shoot us," he whimpered, keenly aware of how pathetic he sounded.

"Shoot you? That wasn't part of my plan at all. I just needed to remind your superior who's in charge." Rummaging through a pile of clothes situated in one corner of the room, she pulled out a black garment that stretched from head to so, covering everything but one's eyes and hands. "What happens now is simple: I will go to your airbeast to directly negotiate with your captain. Schmidt will stay here, like it or not. One of your men will accompany me on the streets while I wear this burqa, so as to not draw suspicion to either of us. In case you haven't noticed, there is a price on my head."

There was no way Newkirk was going with her.

"You," she said, pointing at him, "you're going to walk with me on the way there. Just act as though you're a Good Samaritan guiding a poor, lost girl back home, and none will be the wiser."

Newkirk accidentally swore aloud, drawing shocked looks from his crew and a fit of laughter from Lilit. "Alright, you are _definitely_ coming with me!" she said.

"What about the doctor?" Mr. Rigby demanded of her. "We can't just leave him here and return empty-handed!"

Lilit shrugged, or appeared to shrug as she slipped on the heavier cover of the burqa. "I can explain the situation to him when I meet him in person. You and the other two midshipmen will leave first, and I will leave soon after with him."

"How do we know you won't turn your back on us?"

"I promise you, I'm telling the truth. Besides, you now know where one of my safehouses is. Isn't that enough reassurance for you?"

She did have a point, as cynical as it was. "I'll be fine," Newkirk said to the others. "I know the way back to the _Leviathan_."

Unsteadily, the others walked back to the ladder, leaving Newkirk alone with a traitorous German scientist and a girl who just intimidated four men from the Air Service. Dylan would never believe him if he tried to describe it to him. All he wanted was a simple job and a glimpse at what being a hero was like…

"Are you ready to go, Mr…"

"Newkirk. And aye, I'm as ready as you are."

"Good. Don't worry, I doubt your captain will refuse to budge on the matter." As she took his hand to lead him through the tunnel, she paused. "Your pulse is racing, Newkirk."

"It's probably because of how much bigger this mission just became, or because, I don't know, _you barking threatened to shoot us!_"

Though he could never be certain, he thought he could see a smile forming under the burqa's facial coverings. "I like your attitude, Newkirk," Lilit said. "I think we'll have quite the experience working together!"

* * *

**A/N: Just to clarify one aspect of this chapter: Lilit's rebellion is known as the "March 31st Movement" after a real-life incident in the Ottoman Empire, when a counter-coup against the Committee of Union and Progress occurred (and was later crushed by their army). I will go more into detail about Lilit's fall from grace with the Committee and the origins of her rebellion in the coming chapters. **

**As always, I greatly appreciate reviews, so don't be shy! Feel free to voice your opinion in the review box below!**


	3. Spark

**A/N: My apologies for the late update. I have been swamped with work these past few weeks, and I had to iron out some details of this chapter before concluding it. Hopefully, the next update will have less of a gap than this one did.**

* * *

In the arid outskirts of the Ottoman Empire, a lone figure slowly shifted his way towards the shadows in the distance.

Lifting his legs proved to be a challenge, even before his escape from captivity. Every step felt like he was landing on hot coals, and he cringed with each slow progression towards the people who would either be his salvation or damnation.

His unsteady hands gripped the Webley revolver that was stashed in his belt. At least, this time, he would be prepared for any Ottoman soldiers looking to take prisoners.

Where exactly he was standing was a mystery to him. Boundaries, landmarks, and any recognizable features of the nation he had been trapped in were all a blur at this point. All he could do since the escape was make his way across the harsh terrain to the Mediterranean, with only the clothes on his back and a stolen pistol to his name.

The shadows had become more distinct as they drew closer. They wore black military garb of some sort, and had the distant sort of appearance that only pilots and airmen tended to sport. They seemed to have finally noticed him, as the leader among the four shapes began waving in his direction and running.

A wheeze escaped his sand-ravaged throat, bringing him onto his knees as a painful coughing fit ensued. Weakly, he tried to steady himself and stand up, failing the first few times before regaining his balance.

The four people were now no more than thirty feet from him. His eyes met the three in the back, unable to decipher who these three strangers in Air Service uniforms were. The leader, though…the bushy hair, naïve look, and overly-expressive face said it all. His left hand tightly gripped the revolver. The four men stopped, unsure of what to make of him.

"Matthews?" Newkirk asked, sounding completely in shock and looking deeply concerned. "Is that you? But, Captain Hobbes said that you'd be dead by now…you're the escapee from that Ottoman prison?"

Matthews said nothing. His eyes stared into Newkirk's, clearly unsettling him and getting the attention of his subordinates.

"He isn't saying anything, Newkirk!" the other midshipman said to him.

Newkirk raised his hand slowly, warning the others not to act rashly. "He's shell-shocked, O'Donovan. Just give him a minute."

He remained silent, a scowl plastered on his face. His thoughts were a maelstrom of rage and accusation. Of course Newkirk would be there to rescue him…the pathetic, cowardly Scot somehow had stayed aboard the _Leviathan_ despite his utter inability to cope with fabs. So, while he was suffering at the hands of his captors, Newkirk was getting all of the glory that he deserved. He…and that idiot Sharp. Because of Sharp, two of his friends were dead, and he had received unending torment for nearly an entire year. The thought of Sharp getting away with fouling up their mission scot-free made his blood boil.

Newkirk took half a step near him, quietly putting away his own sidearm. "Airman Matthews," he softly told him, "it's Midshipman Newkirk. I am here to help you. Just come this way, and we can get you home again."

Newkirk took another step, and Matthews drew his revolver, pointing the gun squarely at Newkirk's chest. The boy let out a gasp of terror.

"Blisters, he has a pistol!" the Irish midshipman said, fumbling with his holster to draw his own gun.

"It's okay, it's okay!" Newkirk shouted at the others, brow furrowed and confidence drained away. It was almost fun to see him whither under pressure like the summer soldier he was. "Please, Matthews…I'm your friend. We used to talk all the time about our hometowns. I still owe you those two pounds, remember?"

In a much slower manner, Newkirk took a full step towards him. "It's time to go home, Ernest," he whispered. "All of your family and friends are waiting for you. Just, please…don't be a bum-rag. Lay down the gun, and we can talk on the way back."

Matthews' expression softened for a moment, considering Newkirk's offer. His parents were probably worried sick about him, and he never got the chance to give his brother a proper goodbye. All of his crewmates and comrades-in-arms would be glad to see that at least one person survived the sabotage mission. Maybe he could go home now…maybe he could find peace…

Matthews pulled the revolver's trigger, punching a hole through Newkirk's skull and killing him instantly.

The three others, panicking at the sudden shooting, reached for their own weapons. One slug through the Irish midshipman's sternum silenced him permanently, just as Matthews slid behind a rock for cover. His ears prickled at the sound of the remaining airmen cocking their guns, shouting at each other in terror and wildly squeezing off rounds at his position. They were amateurs, no doubt about that. Despite the heat, his hands felt icy cold as he shot the legs of the two survivors, their sidearms falling to the ground with a clank. He slipped out from cover, kicking their weapons away. They desperately clawed at the sand, trying to crawl away from him as he put the last two bullets into their heads. Once again, his world had become silent, and Airman Matthews left the scene of the killings without a single word.

* * *

Newkirk awoke with a start, gasping for air with the conclusion of the nightmare. He could feel a pounding sensation where the bullet would have hit him. The cool evening air reminded him that he had slacked off from lookout duty, dozing off like the clarthead he was. He looked through his binoculars, scanning the port for any unusual activity. Once again, aside from some gendarmes making their rounds around the area, there wasn't much to see.

"That dream, though…" he muttered, shaking his head to keep himself alert.

Of course, the actual extraction never went that way. Matthews had dropped his weapon after he had given him some coaxing, and the group left the area without incident. In fact, Matthews ended up receiving an honorary promotion to midshipman for surviving the ordeal, which he took unenthusiastically. The scenario in his nightmare had certainly played out in his head multiple times. He could never bring himself to shoot a friend like Matthews, even if his personality had shifted following the imprisonment in the Ottoman Empire. Yet another weakness to add to his ever-growing collection of faults…

He had to wonder, though: were those bizarre, hateful thoughts the same things that had been floating around in Matthews' head at the time of his rescue? Or, were those comments just his interpretation of what the poor airman had been thinking at the time?

At the very least, the calm night sky was soothing enough to help him focus back on the job he was supposed to be doing. With a low wind-speed and the distant clanking of machinery in the background, Newkirk almost felt relaxed and at ease. Back home in Edinburgh, he had to contend with unending torrents of rain and lightning, relieved once in a blue moon by the arrival of the sun for a day or two. His experiences in Istanbul had spoiled him with a warm climate and quick-moving storms.

He peered through the binoculars once more, scanning the perimeter for any suspicious activity. The riggers atop the _Leviathan _were slacking off as well, lounging around on the beastie's membrane and smoking cigarettes. Something, if he recalled correctly, that was highly dangerous and strictly forbidden while on-duty, primarily due to the dangers of mixing hydrogen leaks with fire. A couple of zeppelins floated far in the distance, too far for him to identify for now. The streets leading into the port were mostly empty, though the port itself was fairly active with mostly Clankers and a few Darwinists conversing beside a fire pit. Turning his head further, he found that his vision was blocked off by a light-brownish smudge of some sort.

Newkirk lowered the binoculars and scrubbed their lenses with the handkerchief stuffed into his pocket. He looked at both ends and, confident with their cleanliness, looked up to see Lilit climbing onto the crow's nest.

"Permission to come aboard?" she asked, taking a seat near him as if he had given the word.

Newkirk looked back at the riggers, trying to see if there were any officers among them. On one hand, Captain Hobbes was counting on him to keep a sharp lookout for any Clanker agents, much like the ones that had sullied the Air Service's reputation with the elephant walker hijacking. On the other hand, he was higher-up than they were, which meant that Lilit could probably stay up here without being noticed. Besides, he was starting to get lonely, and the company of an overly-assertive rebel leader was better than nothing at this point. "Aye, I don't see any harm in it."

The walk back from the hideout had been rather uneventful overall. Lilit's very conservative disguise made her unrecognizable to the few authorities they had stumbled across, and Newkirk's prepared tale about bringing a poor, lost girl back home were accepted by them. Now, she had undone the headscarf and tied it loosely around her neck, revealing her strikingly beautiful features once more.

Newkirk promptly doubled-back on what he had just thought. Did he just call her strikingly beautiful? Sure, she was quite the sight, but he had just met her a few hours ago. Was he really that quick to judge appearances? Or, was there some universal validity to his remark? She did have an attractive, angled face, and her black hair flowed quite nicely when she turned her head, and her eyes were so deep and entrancing…

Catching himself getting lost in his thoughts, he sharply jammed on his own foot, bringing him back to reality with a spurt of pain. There was a time and a place to admire the looks of a lass, like when she wasn't sitting right in front of him.

"I just finished talking with your captain," Lilit said, looking out in the distance towards the Mediterranean. "We aired our disagreements, but he was willing to help my people out in exchange for Schmidt defecting."

Lilit seemed prepared and eager to start this project of hers, but Newkirk could only pay attention to the uncomfortable feeling growing in his gut. Their original mission was so simple that no one could possibly end up harmed along the way. If they went against the Ottomans, they would be butting heads with a major Clanker power yet again, only with even less justification for doing so. Even though she practically exerted confidence every time she opened her mouth, he wondered if they were nothing more than means to an end for her.

"So, what will you do now?"

"It should be simple enough. Your crew would drop off exit visas to our safehouses around Istanbul, provided that the Vizier grants your ship additional time to remain in the port. If not…well, you could always grease a few of the local authority's palms."

"First smuggling, and now bribery. You have quite the knack for committing crimes, Ms. Lilit."

To his surprise, she looked a little pleased with his remark. "If I had obeyed the law, I would have died several times already. Laws that hurt innocent people deserve to be broken, as far as I am concerned."

She definitely had Newkirk's interest. Dylan had talked from time to time about a lady rebel she had stumbled across in Istanbul, who rode walkers and fought against the Clankers for her country's freedom. Then again, she was a Clanker as well, so it probably had more weight for her to be fighting them than people like him. Shouldn't she be in charge of everything, though? If she really had fought on the winning side, why was she hiding in plain sight, battling the same forces she had worked for?

"How'd you end up like this?" he blurted out, unaware of how vague and potentially-offensive it sounded to anyone other than him.

"Like what?" she asked, somewhat confused by his question. "How did I end up breaking laws?"

"Well, more than that! I thought you were some barking rebel hero a year back! How, in Darwin's name, did you end up being hunted by the people you helped out?"

Lilit was silent, staring out at the sea once more. She looked almost tired, as if the question had somehow sucked the joy out of her. She sighed, quietly tapping her hand against the railing of the crow's nest.

"Very well," she said after a while. "I'll tell you my story. On one condition."

"I'm all ears, Ms. Lilit. What'd you have in mind?"

"Please, just call me Lilit. Here's what I have in mind: I tell you my life story, you tell me yours. Is that fair?"

A cold shiver ran through Newkirk's entire being. "No," he weakly told her. There were some memories he didn't enjoy drudging up, and he refused to subject himself to the anxiety they would create if he openly talked about them. He was not going back to that day at the market, no matter what. He couldn't just air his family's history for everyone to hear, especially considering all of the resentments building up after the war…

Lilit shrugged, as if she had expected that sort of response. "Suit yourself. Don't expect me to have a change of heart anytime soon, though."

"That's hardly fair! I don't appreciate having to go over every barking detail about how I got here! All I wanted to know was why the Ottomans are going after you!"

"Oh, so it's fair for me to spill all of my past to you, but not the other way around?" she shot back at him. "I swear to God, you Englishmen and your secrecy…"

Newkirk fumed at her comments. Who was she to judge him for wanting to keep some parts of his life under wraps? Granted, he could leave some of the messier bits out, but skipping around them would force him to remember all of those stomach-curling moments he endured when he was barely over eight.

He could still feel the brisk autumn air blowing through the markets of London as he and his da were getting ready to set up shop. How he would always remind Newkirk of how grateful they should be for getting a space in the open-air markets, and how selling their wares in the cold would get them the money they needed to stay alive. But, he never quite understood any of it at that age. All he knew was that a lot of the men and women tended to scoff as they passed their stand, with the only acknowledgment of their presence being that godforsaken slur they were subjected to each day…

"…for Midshipman Newkirk," a male voice beside him said. "Message for Midshipman Newkirk. Message for Midshipman Newkirk." A reptilian head belonging to a message lizard poked its way out of the grate on the floor. It was one of those "modernized" versions of the beastie that the Admiralty kept raving about, with their quicker speeds and capabilities to remind people that they had messages waiting for them.

Newkirk slapped himself, shaking his head and trying to wake up. Had he nearly fallen asleep again? This was becoming a problem. Maybe he should ask Matthews if he could spare any of those pills he took to ward off sleep.

"I'm here, I'm here. Play the message."

"Newkirk, you there?" Fitzroy's voice sounded from within the beastie. "The captain thinks have a bit of a problem coming our way. Take a look at the sky around 10 o'clock from the crow's nest, and confirm what you see as soon as possible."

Newkirk glanced at the patch of starry sky, but could not make out any noticeable shapes or figures. It was too dark for him to discern anything in the distance.

A pair of binoculars were forced into his hand by Lilit, who was looking in the exact spot Fitzroy had described. "Ehm…thanks," he awkwardly said, adjusting the distance to its lowest setting and taking another gander at whatever it was he was looking for.

It didn't take too long to see what the problem was.

Rapidly approaching the docks was a German zeppelin, belonging to the lighter _Interceptor _class of airships. It looked like a military model, but there were no visible armaments anywhere on its exterior. He tilted his head several different ways, trying to get a better angle of the incoming ship.

This was not good. Why was a German airship coming to the Ottoman Empire? Wasn't there still some bad blood between both sides for the Ottomans selling out Germany to the Darwinists? It wasn't some sort of modified trade vessel, judging by its Imperial German Air Service insignias on its sides. Newkirk's heart sank as he realized that they might be here to collect the defector themselves. It was going to be hard enough handling the Ottoman police and refugees, but holding off the Germans at the same time? That was barking madness!

"Lilit, tell that me that isn't what I think it is," he said, handing the binoculars back to her.

She held it to her eyes, adjusting the zoom variability with a free hand. "If you mean an _Interceptor_ airship, then yes, I see it. Would it make you feel better if I told you it isn't there, anyway?"

Newkirk shook his head in despair. This was too complicated for him. He needed Dylan back here, or even Aleksandar. Clart, even Dr. Barlow would be useful at a time like this! As it stood, he and the crew were putting their trust in a disenfranchised rebel with a risky plan, and going up against the Ottoman Empire and possibly the Germans as well. Why did the heroes always have to leave when they're needed the most?

"Newkirk, you might want to see this!" He moved behind Lilit, taking her spot as he gazed at the sight she had noticed.

With the distance setting at its maximum, he found himself looking at the crow's nest of the German zeppelin. Sitting there was a German officer, clad in a major's uniform and glancing at them intently with his own binoculars. It felt bizarre, watching another man watch him, both parties attempting to gain some insight on the other. He would have to let the others know about this problem right away. Just as he was about to put the binoculars down for good and confirm the sight, he saw the officer's lips moving, mouthing out the words, "Finally, a challenge."


	4. Embers

News of the Germans' arrival was received by Newkirk's superiors just as he suspected it would.

"You see? You see?" Mr. Hirst cried, "This was all a trap from the start! I'll bet that Ottoman officer was behind all of this…"

Mr. Rigby raised his hand, saying, "Now, now, we can't tell that for sure. They might not even know why we're here."

"And do you really believe that?" Mr. Hirst was even more indignant than usual. If Newkirk's theory was right, he probably took the possibility of the Germans knowing about their mission as a personal offense. Clankers were nothing but scum to him, a group of people undeserving of his respect. "I mean, come on! A German vessel arrives not too long after we dock for a secret task no one is supposed to know about? That can't be a coincidence!"

Captain Hobbes, the calm strategist as always, sat between the two with his head held low, looking deep in thought. He had been sitting out of the argument so far, only acknowledging its presence with a nod or two. At least Newkirk had some comfort knowing that he would have a plan of action ready for them. Even in the worst conditions, Captain Hobbes always found a way to pull through and protect his crew. In many ways, he was a hero to Newkirk as well, with his penchant for bravery and unclouded judgment. He seemed like he could withstand any hardship, like a great stone wall.

On the other side of the room sat Newkirk himself. Being the lad responsible for breaking the bad news to the officers, he was immediately bombarded with questions about the airship. They wanted to know its size and speed and weaponry, and he could only answer so much with the one-sided view of it he got. Then, as if it were supposed to motivate him, Mr. Hirst called him a daft fool and began discussing plans to counter this apparent threat.

He was fine with a healthy ribbing or two, but he had grown tired of the accusations of being dumb and slow-witted. Sure, maybe he wasn't as fast-thinking as someone like Dylan, and sure, he was too afraid of some of their beasties, but that didn't mean he was some stupid ninny! He hadn't survived all these years by being saved by everyone else! It might take him longer to understand certain things, but the moment he got it he remembered it for life. Without that, his da would have never been able to teach him things like tying his shoes, or metalworking, or clock-making…

Captain Hobbes got out of his chair, which seemed to silence both of the other officers. "Before I make a decision, I need to know one last detail. Mr. Newkirk, did you spy any personnel on the airship, or was everyone inside at the time?"

"Well, sir…" he scratched the back of his head uncomfortably, trying to decide how to describe what he saw. "I saw one German in the crow's nest. A major, I think he was." The captain nodded, circling his hand to tell him to continue. "He was looking at our beastie with some binoculars of his own. When he saw us – I mean myself – he smiled and mouthed something like, 'Finally, a challenge.' And that's all I saw before I came to you."

"A challenge?" Mr. Hirst exclaimed. "That's what we are to him? Just a challenge?"

Captain Hobbes shook his head. "What that major thinks of us is irrelevant, Mr. Hirst. What matters is that he may or may not have known we were here. If the former is the case, then we will have far more to worry about than nosy Ottoman bobbies, mark my words."

It was almost as if the captain was nervous. This was not looking good at all to Newkirk. Wasn't the war supposed to be over? Why were the Germans always trying to drag them into the mud with them? Couldn't they just accept their defeat and move on already?

It was all the Germans' fault to him. If what Dylan said was true, then they were the ones who killed those two nobles and started the war. The blame solely fell on them.

"You know that's not true, Eugene," a mocking voice in his head retaliated. "Remember Churchill and the warship? Or the Serbians and their plots against Austria? How about all those young, spirited Germans you and your friends sent to premature graves? You're as much to blame as everyone else."

Newkirk shook his head repeatedly, dispelling the feelings of guilt and doubt that had taken ahold of him. It had been getting worse and worse since Dylan and Aleksandar had left. Before, he could vent his troubles and worries to Dylan, and he would be sensitive enough to hear him out. Now, without someone he could be open and honest with, he was bottling up all of his anxiety and nervousness, knowing that it would eventually backfire on him.

He couldn't talk about it to Fitzroy, as he would probably just laugh it off or not take him seriously. Matthews was probably too deep in his own troubles to worry about Newkirk's. And O'Donovan? He was friendly, but he just wouldn't understand any of it.

Captain Hobbes briefly gazed out the slanted window in the meeting room. The airship had docked only a few spaces away from them, mocking their efforts to remain secretive with its presence. Whether or not he wanted to accept it, it was clear to Newkirk that the Germans had figured out that Schmidt was hiding in the Ottoman Empire. Even worse, they might know that the _Leviathan_ was supposed to extract him.

"The issue, gentlemen, is that there is a growing disparity between what we know and what we can only speculate on," Captain Hobbes said. "The only way to figure out if we have been compromised would be through the Germans themselves."

Mr Rigby nervously adjusted his tie. "I would hate to sound rude, captain, but they aren't exactly the talking type. After the war and all of those reparations we hit them with, they might be more inclined to strike us than open up to us."

"And that, Mr. Rigby, is precisely why we will handle this like the netting operation a year ago. All we need to do is overhear them talking to estimate how well-informed they are." Captain Hobbes produced a small, brown box from behind his desk, and set it down for everyone to see. "The Admiralty sent us this experimental fab for testing purposes. This would be the ideal situation to see how well it works."

He lifted the box's cover, revealing that it only contained a small, pale-green tortoise-like creature. It stretched its neck upwards, looking back at the curious faces studying it. Newkirk silently hoped he wasn't the only one wondering how a turtle was supposed to help them spy on the Germans.

"What is it?"

Captain Hobbes moved it out of the box, whereupon it slowly began to move its legs. Now that it was in the light, Newkirk noticed some of the oddities of its appearance, such as its bird-like head, or the bizarre webbing-like substance on its shell, or the occasional movements of its mouth that mimicked his own.

"They called it a 'squawkbox.' Essentially, it acts like a message lizard, but with far greater mental storage capabilities. It can memorize and recite hours upon hours of conversations for anyone. All it needs is a decent foothold in the airship, and it will be able to tell us everything that the Germans have told each other for up to half a day."

"Getting that beastie into the airship won't be an easy feat, captain. How're we going to go about that?"

"Simple – instead of smuggling it directly inside, one of the crew will place it in one of their ventilation ducts. From there, to keep it from wandering off," the captain picked up the beastie and propped its back on the wall, and the webbing on its back immediately held it up when he let go, "you would do this. The lucky one among the crew would have to pick a more obscure spot for it to not be spotted, though."

The one to sneak that beastie into the airship would be anything other than lucky, as far as Newkirk was concerned. It might just be him, seeing as how nothing was going his way lately. Granted, the crew was big enough to improve his odds of not getting selected, but there was always that thin chance of it happening.

"And, since he is the most familiar with the airship's design, Mr. Newkirk will be the one to plant the squawkbox in it."

A quiet, choked gasp escaped his lips. "S-sir?" he weakly asked. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's only the most reasonable choice, Mr. Newkirk. Besides, this will be a simple in-and-out job. I highly doubt you will be in any danger if you stay low and avoid drawing attention to yourself."

"What about Fitzroy or O'Donovan? Or even Matthews? Or, anyone other than me?"

Captain Hobbes sighed, shaking his head with an air of pity. "Mr. Newkirk, I understand that you suffer from a fear of fabrications such as this one-"

"-I'm more afraid of death, captain, and that one isn't very threatening, if you ask me-"

"-But, at some point, you will have to come to terms with who you are and what you are doing. Holding onto a phobia like that aboard a ship where nearly everything is fabricated is a detriment to yourself and your crewmates. It affects everyone around you negatively. Do you understand why I am saying this?"

He felt as if the captain had given him a sharp blow to the gut. Did he think he was just a waste of hydrogen aboard the _Leviathan_, too? He wasn't the first one to say that to his face. He looked up to Captain Hobbes, admired him for being a pragmatic person and a war hero…but, clearly, that trust was not shared both ways. It was as if his own da had called him a failure.

"Yes, captain, I got it," Newkirk muttered, feeling hollow and utterly crushed.

Perhaps sensing the anxieties his subordinate was feeling, Captain Hobbes placed his hand on Newkirk's shoulder, moving down so that their eyes met. "You should know, Mr. Newkirk, that I have nothing but respect for you. I thought that you would jump ship within a week of boarding the _Leviathan_, but here you are over a year later. You have proved yourself to be awfully resourceful so far, and I have no doubts I my mind that we will succeed in recovering the defector. What you need is confidence in your own abilities."

Newkirk nodded, internally grateful at the captain's reassurances. The emotional blow had dulled quite a bit, but he couldn't ignore the fact that even the captain recognized how out-of-place he tended to be.

"I should also note that, God willing, you should not have to do this alone. No one among us would know the docks better than Ms. Lilit, and her familiarity with Clanker technology might help you locate the best position for the fabrication. She should still be around the _Leviathan_, so I will ask her for her assistance. Seeing as how she has roped us into her own affairs, it's only fair that we ask a favor from her as well."

Newkirk breathed a sigh of relief. With Lilit on his side, his chances of success were going to be much higher, assuming she said yes.

Captain Hobbes went back into his chair. "That will be all for now. We need to move quickly, or the element of surprise might be lost. The sooner we learn how much the Germans know about our operation, the sooner we can plan the extraction around that information."

Newkirk looked out the window, lost in the sight of the shadowy image of the German airship, before turning to leave the room.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter was originally much longer, but I figured that it would be less daunting (and quicker) to split it into two halves. **

**Up next - Newkirk and Lilit attempt to slip the fab into the airship! What could possibly go wrong? Everything, I suppose.**


End file.
